But instead, I make Bono hush down for a bit and watch my co-pilot navigate through the unknown neighborhood with patience I am known to not possess. I’m intense, even in my mightiest lightness. We follow the neon orange signs that appear dusty and somehow tired. It’s a beach town, and other drivers aren’t in a hurry at all. Around the bend, however, I see the pillars of the 101: The cars are zooming by. Freedom!

“I WANNA RUN!” Bono is back to screaming, screeching occasionally, to get the message across.

The last text I send, before turning off my cell phone, is to my BFF — my most kindred heart in this world that has put up with my messy head and impatient soul for over a decade, without much objection. She is my In Case of Emergency; has been, since college. Sure, there have been partners before, who would take over that burden, on an adventure or two. But once they go — the job returns to my most kindred heart.

“In the name of love!

One more! In the name of love!”

Ah: St. Bono!

Interestingly, my BFF and I have rarely spoken about our heartbreaks to each other. Perhaps, it’s because we both know that even when a heart breaks — it gets better, with choice. And our choice has always been for the better parts of us.

Bono puts in his two cents:

“You’re dangerous,

‘Cause you’re honest.”

On this part of the 101, the traffic moves. It’s a two-lane construction and we all seem to be quite certain about where we’re going.

For miles and miles, I see California — and it is glorious!

Here she is, stretching in front of me like a reclining redhead, so sure of her witchcraft; with her floor-length hair spilling around her nudity like a shadow. In the fields and farmlands, I am exploring her long limbs: This girl’s got some freckles on her!

When passing through her mountains, I enter her mysterious parts: the curvatures of her hips, and the dimples on her lower back, the hills of her sumptuous behind. In between two green peaks, I am aware of my privilege: My glorious girl has just let me inside. She has surrendered. I dive. I hold my breath a little, pop my ears. I come out on top.

Bono chimes in:

“It’s alright, it’s alright! ALL-RIGHT!

She moves in mysterious ways.”

We take the onramp: 1 North. I’m in the vineyards now: In her hair follicles, behind her earlobes, heading toward the magnificent head of the State. I do love it up there, but I’ve gotta make a stop (somewhere along her clavicle, perhaps): So that I can jump out of the plane — and into the next chapter of me.

And I am thinking: I cannot wait already! And I feel so light!

We pull off onto the side of the road: Here. Finally! But if it weren’t for the single-engine aircraft that looks like it’s been constructed from scrap metal found nearby, I wouldn’t know it.

We check in with a girl next door — at the front desk. She’s skydived 87 times by now! Badass.

In a company of a giggling young lovebirds, we watch two safety videos.

Sign off our lives.

On the other side of the building where we’ve been sent to wait for our instructors, I see a handful of young boys cracking themselves up at the footage of other people’s faces blown into the hideous grins by the g-force. As these impatient souls fall out of the plane, one by one, the video plays music. But I can lipread:

“HOLY SHIIIT!”

“OH MY GOD!”

And:

“FU-AHH-UCK!”

I laugh. I feel so light, so fearless!

Can’t I just live like this forever and ever, in a perpetual state of expecting my next flight?!

On the other side of the divider, two other badasses are crawling all over the carpeted floor, putting together parachutes. And I see her — IMMEDIATELY:

She is exactly my height, small and equally as brown; with an intense face, that also resembles mine, even in the moments of my mightiest lightness. Besides a sports bra and a pair of boy shorts, she is wearing a pair of giant headphones. She’s in her head. After all: She’s got human lives in those brown, strong hands of hers.

“Yo, Eric!” she screams out and lifts up one of the headphone muffs. “Fuck the apple! Get me a Red Bull, yeah?”

And then, she’s back to crawling all over the carpeted floor: Badass! She untangles the lines, gathers the off-white nylon into her arms and dives. The cloud catches her small, brown body and it deflates, slowly.

“Vera? Um. VIE-RRA?!”

Another brown girl has been calling me over: It’s time for the gear. She is a sweetheart, but her hands know exactly what to do: Badass! She insists on talking to me the entire time, but about life and something so light and so fearless. The harness is heavy and I feel grateful for that: It weighs me down, or I would fly off, from all this lightness and love.

He’s screaming at me, with an Aussie accent: I’m the first civilian soul to meet him on the ground, and I bet if I weren’t being strapped in right then, he would kiss me, open-mouthed, on the lips: So light! So fear-none!

The instructors arrive last: They are in red t-shirts and shorts, as if they’ve just come out to play some beach volleyball. But they’re wearing the backpack-looking things on their shoulders, while carrying the white bubbles of chutes in their arms. Badasses!

One of the instructors immediately chips off and goes to grab a bite of pizza. He devours two bites.

“Um. Vie-rra?”

I look up: The badass to take me flying is heading toward us, with an already extended arm for a handshake, even though he’s uncertain which of the impatient souls on standby I must be.